by Rhys Bowen
I didn’t think there would be an occasion for a blue velvet dress, but I packed it anyway. Now that I fully believed that miracles could happen, I wanted to be prepared for another one. I was told that we’d be leaving on the eleven o’clock boat train the next morning. The queen and her party would follow two days later. I wrote to Louisa, telling her that I’d be going abroad, so she wouldn’t hear from me for a while, then faced the driving sleet to pop the letter into a postbox.
I don’t think I slept a wink that night, I was so excited. A little worried, too, if you want to know the truth. I had become passably competent at making cakes and pastries, but nothing like Chef Roland, and always under his supervision. I knew how fond the queen was of her pastries. What if mine were not up to her standard? I reassured myself that there would be French chefs at the hotel and I could ask them for advice. Also that Mr Roland would presumably recover in a week or so and be sent out to join the party.
When we assembled for breakfast in the morning, I could tell that the others in our party were as jittery as I was. “Not the day I’d choose to cross the Channel, is it now?” Mr Williams was muttering to Mr Phelps. They broke off as I came to join them at the table, regarding me with glances that indicated I was an interloper and they did not welcome my presence.
Rain beat against the high windows and the wind howled through the chimney so that Mr Angelo went to ask permission to use the carriage portal, where we could load in our baggage without getting soaked. We were just carrying out the many crates and boxes that Chef deemed necessary when the queen’s munshi appeared to say Her Majesty would like a word. Up the grand staircase we went and were ushered into a formal breakfast room where Her Majesty sat at a long table, a plate piled high with eggs, kidneys, bacon and poached haddock in front of her. Her Indian servant went to stand behind her, giving us a haughtily disapproving frown. The queen looked up from her food.
“I just wanted to say bon voyage to my loyal servants. I hope you have a safe journey and that everything is made ready for my arrival.”
“It will be, Your Majesty,” Mr Angelo replied.
“Very good. Off you go.” And we were dismissed again, hearing the queen saying, “Hand me some of that marmalade. No, not that one. The ginger.”
When the last pieces had been strapped on to the back of the carriage, we made ready to depart. The other servants had come to see us off. Nelson touched my arm. “Safe journey. Have a good time, Helen. But don’t go talking to any strange Frenchmen, understand?”
I laughed. “I can hardly spend time in France without talking to any Frenchmen, Nelson.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, lowering his voice. “I understand that Frenchmen can be very persuasive. I wouldn’t want your head turned.”
“I promise you nobody is going to turn my head,” I said. “Take care of yourself until I come home.”
“I will.” He took my hand for a second and gave it a squeeze. Then he assisted me into the carriage, and off we went. The five of us were packed in with boxes of kitchen equipment on our laps. Mr Phelps was clearly uncomfortable sitting so close to me. I realized that in the months I had been in the kitchen he had never addressed a word to me.
“Don’t worry, Mr Phelps, I won’t bite,” I said.
Jimmy chuckled.
“I have nothing against you personally, Miss Barton,” Mr Phelps said primly. “But I think it is a mistake to take a female person on a long and arduous trip like this. What if you should become ill? If you should faint?”
“I assure you I am in the best of health and have never fainted in my life,” I said. “And I promise that I will do my best to make sure you are not inconvenienced in any way.”
“You can’t say fairer than that, Mr Phelps,” Jimmy said, giving me a wink. I hoped the wink was just a friendly one. I didn’t want any complications on this trip.
We arrived at Victoria Station, and Mr Angelo bossed the porters as they loaded the luggage in the guard’s van. We found our seats, the whistle blew and off we went. It was not an auspicious start as we chugged out of the station. Rain peppered the windows, sending streaks of grime running down. The backyards we passed looked dismal. But it was my first real train ride, my first time going out of London, and I was determined to enjoy every moment. By the time we arrived at the port of Dover, the weather had not improved. We were soaked and windswept as we negotiated the gangplank on to the ship and had to compete with other passengers for a corner of dry space in the second-class saloon. The crossing was indeed choppy, and I could see why Mr Roland had dreaded it so much. We were crowded together on the bench that ran around the wall. The boat lurched and rolled, making it impossible to stand. Mr Phelps moaned. Mr Williams had gone very pale, and even the normally cheeky Jimmy was silent. Strangely enough, I felt just fine.
“Don’t worry, Mr Phelps,” I said. “Not long now.”
“I don’t think I shall survive to see France,” he groaned. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. Suddenly he had to get up and rush through the crowd in the direction of the lavatories. He did not return for some time, and when he did, he looked positively green.
“Let me get you a glass of water,” I suggested. I forced my way to the bar and came back with the glass, having only spilled a little. He nodded gratefully. As the crowd parted, I looked out through the saloon window, and there, ahead of us, was the coast of France. What’s more, the rain had stopped. I left the others and went outside on to the deck. The sea was still flecked with whitecaps, but the waves had now subsided to a gentle roll. I could see brightly painted houses lining a harbour, and white cliffs like the ones we had left behind. We passed a fishing boat, and the men on board looked up and waved. They were all wearing bright-blue smocks and made a colourful contrast to the red sails of the boat. I felt that I was bubbling over with elation. Here I was, Bella Waverly, former housemaid, lowliest of servants, and I was now about to set foot on the Continent. I was going to make the very most of this opportunity.
We were whisked through French customs, thanks to the letter from Her Majesty, and escorted to our train. The gentlemen seemed to have recovered, and Mr Williams produced cold beef sandwiches he had made just in case there was no proper food to be found on the journey. We ate them gratefully. I couldn’t stop staring out of the window. Everything was so different: the brightly painted shutters on the windows of houses, the lines of poplar trees along the roads, the great yellow horses working in the fields and the peasants in smocks. I was dying to get my first glimpse of Paris, but darkness had fallen by the time we approached the outer part of that city. I peered out of the window as we passed through backstreets, then through the dark haze I caught a glimpse of it. Taller than any building I had ever seen, rising impossibly high into the night sky.
“There it is, Mr Angelo,” I blurted out. “Look. The Eiffel Tower.”
The others crowded to the train window, but then we passed between buildings again, and the view was lost. We came into the Gare du Nord about seven o’clock that evening, only to find it was eight o’clock in French time. We had to hire a wagon to take us across the city to the Gare de Lyon, from which our train to Nice would depart. Seeing as I was the only one who spoke French, I had to pluck up courage and hire the transportation. But the driver was used to carrying English visitors, and I really didn’t need to say more than “Gare de Lyon, how much?” I had no idea if I’d struck a fair price. The wagon driver certainly made a great show of complaining about the amount of luggage we carried with us. Again we were crammed in with our luggage behind us, and I only got the occasional glimpse of tall, elegant houses, shutters at the windows, cafés with bright awnings and tables out on the pavement. But enticing smells wafted towards us: tobacco smoke that smelled quite different from the pipes and cigarettes at home—herbier, spicier and more attractive, I thought. And good culinary smells: onions and garlic and coffee roasting. And there were strange and different sounds too: the sound of an accordion, a woman’s voice
singing came to us and later a loud argument from an upstairs window, all serving to remind me that I was in a different land.
Jimmy was peering out into the night. “I’m a bit disappointed,” he said. “The people look just like Londoners.”
“What were you expecting, boy? Savages wearing loincloths?” Mr Phelps said acidly.
“No, but you hear things about the French, don’t you? You know—ooh la la. Cancan dancers and fishnet stockings?”
“Hardly in the middle of winter on city streets,” Mr Phelps retorted, making me smile.
At the Gare de Lyon station, Mr Angelo handed us each a packet containing French money. “Your weekly wages in francs,” he said. “And don’t ask me what the conversion rate is to our pounds, because I am as much in the dark as you are. So until we learn, be careful that nobody tries to trick you.” We nodded, taking the packets from him. Then he suggested we should find something to eat, as there would be no dinner on the train for third-class passengers like ourselves.
“At least we can all read this much French,” Mr Williams commented as we stood staring at the menu in the station cafeteria. “But I’m not quite sure what grenouilles are?”
“Frogs, Mr Williams,” I replied.
“God forbid.” He raised his eyes. “Don’t tell me we’ve got to live on frogs for the next few months.”
“There are other things, Mr Williams,” Chef pointed out. “But I think we should stick to a bowl of vegetable soup, don’t you? Just in case foreign food might upset our stomachs on the journey.”
So we each had a bowl of soup at the station restaurant. It was rich and tasty, and the bread that accompanied it was delicious. Thus fortified, we found our seats on the train and settled in for a long and uncomfortable night sitting up on a hard seat. At nine o’clock we pulled out of the station. The carriage shook and swayed around a lot, making Mr Phelps look quite ill again.
“I bet the queen doesn’t have to travel like this,” Jimmy said.
“She does not,” Mr Angelo agreed. “She has a private train meet her at Cherbourg, and she has two cars all to herself—a sleeping car with a proper bed and a sitting room. I believe the furniture comes from the palace, too.”
“Do you know what I heard?” Mr Williams said. “I heard that she is having her own bedroom furniture shipped across to the hotel in Nice.”
“Nice for some,” Jimmy said. “I mean neece for some.” He played on the word, making us all smile.
“Do shut up and let me sleep,” Mr Phelps said. “I feel quite unwell again, and the sooner morning comes the better.”
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. We stopped at one station after another—Dijon, Mâcon—then we came into the city of Lyon and stayed there long enough to have coffee on the platform. I tried to sleep and dozed occasionally, only to have Jimmy’s head fall on to my shoulder. There were no more stations for a long while, and I think I drifted off to sleep, until at first grey dawn we came into the big port city of Marseilles. The people on the platform here were quite different from the elegant men and women I had spotted in Paris. There were men in striped jerseys, berets on their heads, and women wrapped in bright shawls and colourful wide skirts. Their language was harsher with a strange twang to it. We pulled out of the station again on the last leg of our journey. The landscape became hilly and wild, then suddenly the sun came up, and we had our first glimpse of blue sea. I gave a little gasp of excitement. The colours were so bright! There were whitewashed houses with bright green or yellow shutters, red and orange flowers spilling over white walls. And in the distance, the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean. It was dazzling after the dreary days of the English winter. I couldn’t wait to get to Nice.
Jimmy seemed more lively than the rest of us. He stood at the train window, staring out at the sea. “Who’s game for a dip in the Med, eh?” he said.
“I think you’ll find that the sea is rather cold, my boy,” Mr Angelo said. “It is winter here, too, you know. Even if the sun is shining. And besides, I’m afraid the beach in Nice is all stones.”
“Stones? No sand like Margate?”
“All stones,” Mr Angelo said. “Nasty round little pebbles that make walking most uncomfortable.”
“How do you know about the beach in Nice, Mr Angelo?” I asked. “Have you been there before?”
“I have, Miss Barton. I accompanied Her Majesty when she rented a villa a few years ago. But I have not stayed in the area of the new hotel. I understand it’s in a quarter called Cimiez, up on a hillside, so it will be a learning experience for me as it will for all of us.”
The rail line followed the seashore, stopping at one little station after another. I spotted fishing boats out at sea and amongst them a beautiful and sleek steam yacht. My travelling companions had been rather quiet all through the night, but now we had all revived.
“Would you look at that.” Jimmy gestured at it. “You know who that belongs to, don’t you?”
“Would that be the Prince of Wales’s yacht?” Mr Angelo asked.
“I reckon it is. I saw a picture of it in a magazine,” Jimmy replied. “Not bad. I wonder if we’ll be invited on board.”
Mr Williams chuckled. “You’ve gotta hope, boy. He’ll have his own complement of chefs and everything else.”
“Including mistresses, I shouldn’t wonder.” Jimmy gave me a wink.
“Watch it, young fellow, we’ve got a lady present,” Mr Angelo said.
“My apologies, Miss Barton.” Jimmy gave me an overly effusive bow.
“I assure you I’m not easily offended, Jimmy,” I replied.
Conversation lapsed as we watched the yacht. My pulse had begun to race. The Prince of Wales on the Riviera. All those worries I had managed to put aside since my encounter with the prince now came flooding back. I tried to tell myself that he would not even remember me if we met again. It had been one of his harmless flirtations, long forgotten. But the fact that his yacht was now on the Riviera was too close for comfort.
“Does he also stay with the queen in Nice?” I asked casually.
“No, he has his own villa in Cannes,” Mr Angelo said.
“He wouldn’t be caught near her,” Jimmy chimed in. “She doesn’t approve of his goings-on and lets him know it.”
That made me breathe a little easier. I wasn’t quite sure how far away Cannes was, but at least he wasn’t going to be at the queen’s hotel. I was all in favour of the Prince of Wales keeping his distance from the queen. Then another disquieting thought surfaced in my brain: Ronnie Barton. I had not even heard whether the prince had hired him, but if he had, surely he would be on the lowest rung of servants and therefore not accompanying his employer to France. But he would never find out that I was here, I told myself. And even if he did, I had fulfilled my part in the bargain. I hoped I had nothing to worry about.
CHAPTER 13
“One thing I should mention to you before we arrive at Nice,” Mr Angelo said as the train began to slow. “The queen does not want to draw attention to herself while she is abroad. We are not to mention that she is Queen Victoria. She likes to refer to herself as Lady Balmoral.”
“Really?” Jimmy looked amused. “How many people did you say she was bringing with her?”
“About forty-five, I think. That’s not counting the royal relatives.”
“She’s got relatives coming, too?”
“Any number of them, so I’ve heard. Her daughter Beatrice of Battenberg and her children; Princess Helena, who is now Princess of Schleswig-Holstein, isn’t she? Oh, and I believe there is a young German cousin included in the party, Princess Sophie of some German place I can’t remember and probably couldn’t pronounce, plus the princess’s fiancé, Count something-or-other.”
“And yet she wants people to think she is a simple, ordinary Lady Balmoral, with a house full of royals like that?” Jimmy chuckled. “Forty-five retainers, crowned heads of Europe. That doesn’t give the local people a hint that she might be Queen Victo
ria? Added to which she is rather distinctive looking, isn’t she? A little round dumpling of a lady wearing a veil.”
“Don’t be disrespectful, boy,” Mr Angelo warned. “Whatever she chooses to do or say or be called is not for the likes of us to dispute.”
“What about that dreadful Indian munshi fellow?” Mr Williams asked. “Don’t tell me she’s bringing him with her?”
“I rather fear she is, Mr Williams.” Mr Angelo raised his eyes in despair. “And there has been a frightful row about that, in case you haven’t heard.”
“We hear nothing, shut away in the kitchen,” Mr Williams said. “We might as well be in another world, might we not?”
“Well.” Mr Angelo leaned closer. “The gentlemen of her household—real proper gentlemen, I mean—can’t stand the bloke. They threatened to resign en masse if she brought the munshi along. She told them they could go and boil their heads, the munshi was coming.”
“She didn’t actually say that, did she?” Mr Williams looked aghast.
“Something along those lines.” Mr Angelo managed a cheeky grin.
“And did they resign?” Mr Williams asked.
“They did not, so I understand. And the munshi is coming whether we like it or not. But I have no intention of making curries.”